


broke me down, but i'm not undone

by middlecyclone



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh,” Simon said, startled. “Wait. Do you <em>like</em> me?”</p>
<p>“Don’t think about it too hard,” Raphael advised, “you might strain something.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	broke me down, but i'm not undone

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the books in about five years and I refuse to do research on the mythology of this show, so everything about vampire politics/lifestyles/whatever is completely and totally made up. 
> 
> Title from Sleater-Kinney's "Fangless".

Simon had always loved the look of wet pavement. Something about the way the red-orange streetlights glinted off the glossy oil-slick streets appealed to some repressed dramatic flair deep in his consciousness. Clary said it looked to her like oil paintings, but it had always reminded Simon of Gotham in old comics--and, more than that, it reminded him of the way people who had never read Batman imagined Gotham looking. It was an idea based on emotions, on false memories, on borrowed turns of phrase and stolen appeals to the theatrical over reality–except it was, mostly, real.

Rain at night had always been an aesthetic where the execution transcended the concept. Seen through the haze of water droplets on his glasses and headlights cutting at angles through the darkness, New York hinted at unknown depths, hidden treasures with teeth waiting to be unwrapped.

Simon had become of those secrets with teeth. He still liked the rain.

 

* * *

 

“I want you to stay with me,” Raphael had said, and meant it. Simon hadn’t wanted to, but he had stayed. It had been an order, not a request.

Which was how Simon found himself accompanying Raphael to a Downworlder party, dressed in a suit of Raphael’s choosing. That had been an order, too.

The party was in an empty warehouse only a few blocks from the Hotel Dumort–a huge cavernous space, packed with Downworlders and blaring an EDM Justin Bieber remix, of all things.

“Why are we here?” Simon muttered to Raphael, pausing at the door. “This looks terrible. I thought Downworlder parties were … well, y’know, kinda classy. Upscale. Magnus’s was, anyway. ”

“Oh, that’s just Magnus,” Raphael scoffed. “Nobody throws a party like Magnus Bane, of course, but that has never stopped anyone before.”

“Right,” Simon said, “sure, fine, but why are we here? Why am _I_ here?”

“As clan leader, I have to make an appearance, or risk disrespecting our hosts,” Raphael explained. “It’s not that it really _matters_ that I’m here, but it would matter a lot if I wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Simon said, “that makes sense, but–”

“You’re here because you’re new,” Raphael said. “You need to be introduced. Debuted. And more than that, I need an escort. It doesn’t really matter that I’m bringing _you_ , specifically, but it would matter if I was alone.”

Simon made a face. “I don’t think I get Downworlder politics,” he complained.

Raphael smirked. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “You and your little Shadowhunter girlfriend played me right into a corner. I’d like you to use some of that lovely little scheming for me, not against me.”

Simon blinked. “Is that why you made me your advisor?”

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” Raphael said, distracted all of a sudden, eyes scanning the room.

“Am I your enemy?” Simon asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Raphael said, “are you?” He wrapped his fingers around Simon’s forearm, carefully, then looked up, staring directly into Simon’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” Simon asked, staring back, trying not to get distracted by the spark of something undefinable and new he saw in Raphael’s face.

He sighed. “There’s Eden,” Raphael said. “Leader of the Boston clan. In town for the night. Checking in with her is the main reason we’re here.”

Simon nodded. “We should go say hi?”

Raphael snorted. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “She’ll come to us.”

Simon sighed. “So what do we do?”

“I told you,” Raphael said, “I brought you here as my escort. So escort me.”

“Yes, all right,” Raphael agreed, and Simon walked deeper into the space, wincing as the volume of Justin Bieber increased, Raphael on his arm.

They made it barely ten feet into the warehouse before a tall blonde woman swooped in, long red dress swirling behind her like blood in water. Her fangs glinted as she flashed them both a wide and not entirely unthreatening smile.

“Oh, hello, Raphael,” the woman–Eden–said, and Simon could tell she was trying to feign indifference but couldn’t quite hide the interested spark in her eyes. “Congratulations on your … promotion, shall we say?”

“We shall say,” Raphael replied coolly, and Simon felt the other man’s grip on his arm tighten slightly as he forced smile. “Nice to see you again, Eden.”

“Yes, well,” Eden said, “the same, of course. Now, who do we have here?”

“This is Simon Lewis, newest addition to my clan,” Raphael said. “My consort.”

Simon felt Eden’s eyes rake him up and down, and fidgeted uncomfortably under her piercing gaze. “I see,” she said eventually. “A bit … soft, for the consort of a clan leader, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Nice to see you, Eden,” Raphael said, and his tone went from cool to arctic. “Thank you for your opinion. If you’ll excuse us–”

Simon could practically feel the frustration oozing off Raphael in waves, as he grabbed Simon by the wrist and tugged him quickly deeper into the throngs of partying Downworlders.

“What was that about?” Simon asked.

“I hate her,” Raphael mutters, and Simon could glimpse his fangs even more than usual as he glared at his perfectly polished shoes. “She’s such a–a nightmare–a _harpy_ –coming in here and thinking she can insult me and my consort and get away with it–”

“Yeah, about that,” Simon hissed, “you said escort before, not consort!”

Raphael shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said, “you tell me. Escort implies ‘date’. One time. Low-commitment. Consort implies … I don’t know, weird magical vampire life-partner! You said before that you could have brought anyone–I didn't think this meant anything!”

“Stop getting all your vampire facts from _Twilight_ ,” Raphael snorted. “And here's another thing about vampires: everything _always_ means something.”

“Oh,” Simon said flatly. “So when you said that it it didn't matter who you brought to this thing–”

“Oh, it doesn't matter at all,” Raphael said, “not to our hosts, and not to Eden or anyone else. But to me? It … could matter. I brought you because I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Simon said, startled. “Wait–do you– _like_ me?”

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Raphael advised, “you might strain something.”

 

* * *

 

When Simon was younger, his favorite thing to do at the park was play on the merry-go-round. He’d loved running as fast as he could manage, tiny hands gripping the metal bars of the carousel, then leaping onto the platform and spinning until he was so dizzy he couldn’t see straight. Sometimes he would crawl into the center of the merry-go-round and lie on his back, staring up at the sky wheeling around him until he gradually slowed and it was time to start the whole thing over again. Other times he would linger at the outer edge of the platform, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible so the merry-go-round would keep whirling on as long as possible. Sometimes he would manage to keep his grip the whole time, but more often than not his sweaty palms would slip off the bars and Simon would go flying off. He’d pick himself up, with dirt in his shoes and skinned knees, to start the whole game all over again until his mom called him back and took him home.

Being a vampire was like riding a merry-go-round every hour of every day. He was trying desperately to hold onto Clary, to his old life, but the centrifugal force of his new Downworlder self was dragging him off the ledge and into the dirt, irresistible and inevitable. Simon’s whole life made him feel so dizzy he couldn't think straight: it was terrifying, and intoxicating, and just like a child on the playground, he couldn't stop himself from going back for more.

Simon knew that he didn't really have the chance at a happy ending, not these days; he knew that no matter how fast he spun he would end up on the ground or in the ground, ruined, lost. Somehow that didn't really seem to matter, anymore.

 

* * *

 

Raphael fidgeted. “Eden is right behind me, isn’t she,” he asked Simon, quietly, nervously.

“Yeah,” Simon told him, peering over Raphael’s shoulder, “her and about 10 friends.”

“ _Dios,_ ” Raphael whispered to himself. “She didn’t believe me before. She thinks I’m up to something.”

“Are you?” Simon asked, because–well. He was curious.

“Of course I am,” Raphael snapped, “I’m interim chapter president. It is quite literally my job description to always be up to something!” He sighed. “But not right now,” he added, “not with you.”

Simon blinked. Somehow, he hadn’t been expecting that. “Okay,” he said eventually, “so let’s prove it.”

He took a step closer, tentative, and put a hand on Raphael’s waist. “Is this okay?”

Raphael stared up at him in startled confusion for a long moment, and then smiled. Instead of answering he reached up to curl one hand around the side of Simon’s neck and let the other one rest on Simon’s collarbone, surprisingly gentle.

“How convincing are you willing to get, consort?” Raphael murmured into his ear.

“How convincing do you need me to be?” Simon whispered back, and felt rather than saw Raphael’s answering smirk.

“Only if you're sure,” Raphael said. Behind him, Simon sensed the watchful eyes of Eden and her cohorts upon them, and he inclined his head to press his lips firmly to Raphael’s smirking mouth.

This had not been an order. This was a choice.

It was a performance of a kiss, fake for an audience, which didn’t explain why Simon _liked_ it so much. Raphael’s lips were cool but the inside of his mouth was burning hot, and the longer they kissed the more the rest of the world seemed to melt away, until it was just the two of them, not a performance anymore, no need to breathe and nobody left to impress.

Raphael broke away, and whether it was seconds or years later, Simon couldn’t be sure. “Thanks,” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Anytime,” Simon replied, and was stunned to realize that he meant it.

Being dead had changed a lot for Simon, but he had never expected this.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like you much, fledgling,” Raphael said plainly, later.

“Thanks,” Simon replied drily, “great, really, glad to hear it–”

“But you’ve been useful,” Raphael finished, ignoring him. “And honestly? You’re growing on me.”

Simon smirks at that, reflexive, all human teeth and no fangs. Raphael smiles back, all fangs and no humanity.

“Yes” Raphael says, “you’ve got potential,” and reaches out a hand, confident but gentle. Simon turns his face down, from the sky to the dirt, and lets him.


End file.
